


Thrice for the Charm

by Alliswell



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Grieving, Not quite Dark Humor... but gray I guess, OOC!Katniss, Off-screen Minor Characters Deaths, Rating May Change, Semi-Historical, Some Humor, Superstitious Misconceptions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-28 07:51:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliswell/pseuds/Alliswell
Summary: Katniss thinks she's cursed because her first two husbands died, one on their wedding night, the other one week after they married. She inevitably falls in love with gentle baker, Peeta Mellark, who seems to always be there in her worst moments. Could she get over her fears he might die and give love another chance? Or will she refuse him for his own safety?Based on a tumblr Prompt by my dear friend Mega-AuLover





	Thrice for the Charm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MegaAuLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaAuLover/gifts).

> The Hunger Games and all its characters are the creative property of Suzanne Collins. This story is a work of fan fiction and I’m not perceiving financial gain through it.
> 
> This work has not been beta-read. All mistakes are mine, and keep in mind, English is not my first language, so don’t be surprised if I slaughter it at any point. 
> 
> For Rachel, with love ❤️

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Mega-AuLover: Hey lady may I ask for a- Katniss thinks she's cursed because her 2 husband's died. One on their wedding night and the other one week after they married. Now she meets Peeta and falls in love But refuses to marry him for fear her might die!

**Age 19:**

I sit in the cozy rocking chair my father built for my mother when her belly was round with me, staring at the wall across from me, tired from crying and nursing a terrible headache that keeps me from falling asleep.

In an effort to help, my sister loaded my lap and shoulders with many quilts, to the point I’m beginning to feel like another square of threadbare fabric with unraveling seams.

Strangely, the thought is becomes more appealing the longer I stew on it: If I was a patchwork in a blanket, I wouldn’t have to feel this winded, heartbroken and empty no more. But alas, I am made of flesh, bones and muscles, and right now the chief muscle in my body, my heart, feels too tight to breathe and too spent to weep for the man I just put in the hard, cold ground.

My husband of few hours died so needlessly, so stupidly, so... _preventable_.

My emotions keep hovering between anger, resentment, disbelief and heartbreak.

Ugh! Men can be such pains!

But how I wished my husband was here, probably annoyed that I was right and he wrong, but alive, here, with me and ready to take us home to our new place by the woods.

Instead, his lifeless body is laying in a coffin I had to pick and pay to be altered, because my bear of a man was too tall for the boxes at the mortuary.

Talk about uncooperative! And then I’m the one dubbed ‘contrary’. Figures! 

Before my mind can recreate each cursed minute of the events leading up to me sitting in this chair staring unblinking at nothing, the quiet in the house gets interrupted by a soft, almost shy, knock on the thick wooden door of my folks’ house.

“Primrose, would you finish fixing tea for your sister, please?” Calls my mother curtly from the stove.

“Coming, Mother!” Says my sister dutifully, dropping her mending into a basket by her chair.

Prim sends me a pained smile as she passes me by. If I had my wits about myself I would scoff at her and wave her off. 

I also would’ve answered the door myself if I had the strength to get out of my warm cocoon, but I’m fresh out of will power to blink, let alone shift my limbs to do anything but sit. This isn’t my home anymore anyway, so I don’t feel obligated to play graceful hostess. I just keep staring at the pattern of the quilts, loosing myself in a mindless stitch count. The colors are soothing at least.

My mother crosses to the front door, barely sparing me a glance while smoothing down her skirts and aprons; always a proper lady even out here in the edges of civilization.

In any other occasion, I’d be snorting the notion loudly through my nose, proud of being as wild as the frontier, just like my father before me. Although I doubt father intended for me to turn out to be an uncouth urchin… then again, father didn’t intend on many things that came to be, like leaving his beloved family behind to face the harsh west alone, yet here we are anyway, father in the ground two rows from where we laid my husband to rest, and me sitting in this chair, like a lump on a log.

Mother opens the door enough to peek her head out, and then I hear her exchanging pleasantries with a man whose soft, deep voice sounds vaguely familiar. I’m too lost in my own misery to care, so I close my eyes and will my pain to stop squeezing tears out of me.

My mother’s voice, however, travels. It pierces through my wretched thoughts, and her words resound loudly in my ears.

“Of course, Mr. Mellark! She’s sitting just inside. Would you like to come in and speak to her in person?”

I panic right away. Is my mother insane? I just buried my husband of nineteen hours this noon! I’m in no shape to see anyone right now!

“Oh! Please, no, madam. I would hate to impose, and times such as this are for close family alone. I wouldn’t dare intrude. I just wanted to let Miss Everd... _M-mrs_. Hawthorne, that both she and her mother-in-law can come for bread a couple of times a week. Free of charge! Until they need my assistance no more, that is.” Says the man— Mr. Mellark— to my mother.

“Oh! Your generosity is much appreciated, Mr. Mellark!” Did my mother just cooed to the town baker? “Honestly, I was a little concerned about my daughter and poor Hazelle! What with Gale gone and all those young'uns to feed on their own now, life is going to be hard for them.”

“That’s why I’m here, ma’am, to provide some relief to both Mrs. Hawthornes.”

I frown.

Deeply.

For the first time since planting my rear in this chair an hour ago, I feel life come back to my body. I’m a widow, not a helpless charity case! I stand up out of spite, unable to throw off me the covers wrapped around my frame; I drag them like a ball of fluffy armor around my body.

I must look a sight judging by the pair of wide blue eyes staring at me in shock when I stomp behind my mother with my flyaway locks of hair and the bruised up skin under my eyes.

I practically shove my mother out of the way to give the town baker a piece of my mind; except is not the town baker, but his youngest son, Peeta, obscuring my mother’s front stoop.

My now late husband, Gale, and this Peeta character, went head to head competing for the title of Panem’s most coveted bachelor for the last couple of years. Gale finally wore me down and I accepted his marriage proposal, effectively taking himself out of the market.

Gale had been a desirable prospect among the female population both for his rugged good looks and his hunting skills, while Peeta Mellark had his own set of attributes— for example his brute strength and the fact he’s a baker, and I may add the man can be considered handsome to some— but really, I haven’t the time to list the reasons a girl may find Peeta Mellark attractive right now, since I’m on a mission to inform the now reigning victor of Panem’s most coveted bachelors, that I can pay for my own darned bread and that of my in-laws as well, thank you very much!

Before I can start my speech, however, Peeta smiles shyly and tips his hat to me awkwardly in greeting. “Miss Everdeen—“ He breathes out. He shakes his head, just as the top of his ears turn crimson, “_Mrs. Hawthorne_!” He practically shouts out my new name in a frenzy to correct himself.

In other circumstances I wouldn't blame the poor fellow for his blunder, after all, Gale died even before we could consummate our vows. For some reason, half the people in this town thought Gale was my cousin for the longest time, when news of our engagement got out, some of our ‘_concerned_’ neighbors made a big hoopla opposing the marriage. At the end, Minister Heavensbee was the only one we needed to convince there was no familial relation between us; if we had tried proving the other idiots wrong, we’d still be tracing our family trees all the way to Adam and Eve and they would be nodding their heads in unison, because we’re all descendants of the original couple.

Some still think of me as Gale’s cousin instead of his wife… widow now.

Peeta Mellark seems to be one of the very few people who have things straight.

“Mrs. Hawthorne,” he continues more collected after a small pause, but the way he utters my new name sounds like it pains him to say it. “I apologize for showing up here uninvited and unannounced. But I felt compelled to pay my respects to the widow of an honorable man, and extend my sincerest sympathies with a gift of bread. It’s not much, I can only offer what my salary can cover, but I figured if ever I had the good fortune to marry, and my mother and bride found themselves in a situation where I was suddenly taken from their side, I would be grateful if the community showed them kindness.“

“Gale doesn’t much care for debts, Mr. Mellark, neither do I. We can trade for the goods.” I say roughly. My voice raspy from all the sobbing of the last few hours. “I can bring some game tomorrow. Or the day after. Depending on the weather.” The last sentence comes out broken. All my bravado leaving my body to be crushed under the sadness and hollowness of earlier.

Who am I kidding? I’m not going hunting tomorrow or the day after. I’ll be lucky if I get out of this pile of blankets by the end of the season!

Peeta Mellark’s bluest eyes soften then.

His jaw seems to set under his smooth, fair skin. “It’s not necessary, ma’am. Providing bread to widows is the neighborly thing to do, at least according to the Scriptures.” He says slowly, encouraging even. “Plus, the time of bereavement is something I was taught to respect.”

He continues, “However, if you rather trade fresh game for my wares, I’m sure my father will be happy to oblige next time you visit the bakery. He truly admires your marksmanship, always remarking on how your squirrels are always shot right through the eye. It’s a very small target. Not many people can boast to be so accurate.” He says equal parts elated and shy, “All the same, we expect no payment for these loaves. It's customary to present food to the survivors of the departed as a show of respect and condolences. Please, Mrs. Hawthorne, take my offering as a token of admiration to your husband. Please let the elder Ms. Hawthorne know she and her younger children are in our prayers.”

I’m on the brink of tears.

Of course Peeta Mellark is right, it is customary to bring food to the grieving family of a deceased; that’s why Hazelle Hawthorne’s kitchen table is about to collapse under the weight of so many offerings, while the small soddy Gale built for us in the outskirts of town— closer to the woods were we used to hunt together growing up— is empty, cold and foodless.

I purse my lips in an attempt to hold back my sobs. After taking a deep breath, I say to Peeta, “Thank you, Mr. Mellark. Your kindness is appreciated.” I give him a stiff half curtsy and without much decorum, pivot on my heels and march back to collapse in my rocking chair once more.

Mother hurries to take the bundle in Peeta’s hands. They exchange a few hushed words I don’t have the strength to eavesdrop on, and then she closes the door behind her back. She leans against the worn wood sighing loudly, tiredly.

I glance up at her, sensing her eyes on me.

Mother’s nostrils flare and her pale blue eyes glare in disapproval. After a moment, she too deflates. Mother shakes her head slowly and straightens up. She moves the bread wrapped in cloth to the crook of her arm so she can comb back the loose hair falling on my forehead with her free hand.

“Katniss,” She starts, not unkindly, “I know you’re hurting. Losing Gale so suddenly, on your wedding day is awful. But do not use this tragedy as an excuse to treat people rudely.” She pats my shoulder affectionately, “Mr. Mellark showed you a consideration most of our neighbors haven’t.”

That is the thing, though. Peeta Mellark has shown me the exact same consideration before, except he got rewarded with a shiner on his cheekbone and part of his eye for it. As quickly as the thought pops into my head, another one— bitter and resentful— bounces it out of my mind.

My mother retrieves her hand from my shoulder quickly when I look up at her. Perhaps she sees all the pent up anger surging through me right now.

“No,” I say dangerously low, “I guess laying in bed catatonic for days on end while your family is left to fend for themselves, is a much more gracious way to grieve a spouse, right Mother?”

“Katniss…” My mother whispers defeatedly “I was sick then. I’m much better now. I have access to herbs that help with the sadness…” She shakes her head, unable to finish her thought and walks back to the stove with eyes full of unshed tears. “Thank you, Primrose. You may go back to your mending now.” She whispers.

My sister has kept to herself all this time, quietly observing with inquisitive eyes. When I find Prim’s gaze trained on me, I’m shamed by the ghost of disappointment I see in her face.

She was too young to either remember or be completely damaged by our mother’s brief abandonment, but I sure as heck will never forget it.

It seems I’ve failed as a grieving widow, but that just further convinces me I’m better off a spinster.

* * *

** Age 22: **

I’m stupefied, mute and unmoving in the unyielding floor of a coat closet in the mortician’s office.

I guess I should be grateful I’m so traumatized and utterly disturbed by what my eyes just saw in the back room of the building. My mind is staying completely blank at the moment. Otherwise I’d be forced to wonder what in the Sam Hill was I thinking, to find myself in this position… _again_?!

I can only blame myself and my inability to say no to Primrose’s ill advised match-making ventures. But I wish I could blame it all on Prim’s romanticism.

I let myself be charmed by a man’s silly sense of humor, honest regard for the law, and his relentless, hopeful overtures of affection towards me. Though I knew better than to fall for a marriage proposal, just like I knew better than to go wandering this creepy place on my own, like the ghost of a jilted bride left widowed much too soon for comfort.

But despite myself and my unreliable assertions on celibacy, it’s been a week since I stood before preacher Heavensbee, pledging myself in matrimony to yet another foolish man, until death do us part.

The Ripper once more has come to collect on that promise, cutting my marriage aggravatingly short.

At least this time around I was introduced to the strenuous drudgery of wifely duty in the marriage bed, before my spouse met his untimely end.

This morning I’ve been sitting at the mortuary, holding my husband’s only sister’s hand, as we make arrangements for his final rest. Last time I sought out the mortuary’s services, the mortician’s wife, Mrs. Trinket, was indisposed and I was spared her unending spiels on proper grieving etiquette.

I wasn’t so lucky this time around.

The woman is a self proclaimed expert on the matter and won’t stop lecturing on the importance of observing all this stupid little social cues and act properly and dignified during the grieving period. The last straw came when her nieces, Octavia and Venia, stepped into the room carrying the latest fashion for newly widowed ladies, and she expected me to choose and buy a gown to wear to the wake and enterrement of my recently departed husband.

I stood up right then and there, claiming I needed a moment to freshen up, and left poor Lavinia— my sister-in-law— there to fend for herself. She’d be alright once her own husband arrives and takes charge of the rest of the proceedings. I just couldn’t sit there and listen to the mortician’s woman any longer.

So, I meandered around the place like a chump, distracted and aggravated, cursing my luck and clenching my kerchief in my fist to death, lest the pain in my palm eased the pain in my heart, until I happened across the preparation room and found myself face to face with the badly beaten corpse of my second husband, Deputy Darius Peace.

I ran out of there like the very hounds of Hell where biting at my ankles and ended up in this smelly closet, just a few feet shy of the main entrance.

To my chagrin, I hear the grating moans of Mrs. Trinket calling my name interspersed with sharp barbs thrown at her husband for leaving the door to the embalming area wide open. The man groans something about relieving his bladder and bad timing before stammering my name loudly, probably to appease his wife.

I bring my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them, vaguely grateful my skirts are roomy enough for such a position. Then when I think the coast is clear, the closet door cracks open, allowing a sliver of light to fall on my eyes.

I’m momentarily blinded.

I hug my knees tighter to my chest trying to make myself smaller, but my traitorous hand goes up to shield my face from the light, purely on reflex. I dare not breathe in case I haven’t been spotted yet, but I have no such luck!

I honestly don’t know what did I expect… the odds haven’t been dependable of late, so there was not a prayer in heaven to prevent them from finding my hiding place.

To my surprise, a big, bulky something drops heavily next to me. The door stays ajar, but only just, and the light no longer bothers me.

“Is it alright if I sit with you, Mrs. Peace?” The bulky something asks in a soft deep voice.

I recognize it right away this time, maybe because I’ve heard it more often in the last three years during trades; or perhaps because Peeta Mellark seems to find me at my worst possible moments after an important man in my life has ceased to exist.

“This is becoming a routine for us, Mr. Mellark, huh?” I say dryly.

There’s a soft, mirthless chuckle coming from his side of the closet. “I sure hope not.” He says, but as I expected, he offers me something sitting in the palm of his opened hand. A cheese bun I wager by the size and shape. My favorite treat too. “I enjoy our business trades so much better than this.”

“Mhmm.” All I can do is agree with a noise at the back of my throat.

I pluck the proffered pastry from his hand, and let my legs fall straight before me. “We shouldn’t make this a habit then.” I say nearly choking up on the words. I take a generous bite of bun to distract myself.

Peeta sighs. “I came to deliver some bread to the Trinkets. I just heard the news about Deputy Darius in town from Mr. Abernathy, but I hadn’t expected to find you here, madam. I overheard Mrs. Trinket panicking about you seeing the Deputy on Mr. Trinket’s preparation table before he had a chance to… do any work…?” The last part tilts in question, like he’s unsure how to put it delicately.

Peeta stays silent for a moment, but continues all the same. “I’m afraid it does look like I’m developing this _gift,_ of finding you in vulnerable moments. I assure you, Mrs. Peace, I don’t enjoy watching you suffer, nor am I consciously seeking you out during all these awful times. It just happens.

“My honest to heaven desire is to make sure you’re well, even though it seems whenIm around you, I also develop this uncanny ability of speaking out of turn, making a bad situation worse.” I can’t stop myself from snorting in wry amusement.

“On that note,” he continues, and though I can’t really see his face, I somehow know he’s smiling, “I should step out of this closet before someone figures out your hiding spot, and misinterprets the situation. Lord knows this town is full of mean spirited gossips. I would be loathed to put you in a position that blemishes your good name, Mrs. Peace. I’ve seen you are as well as could be, given the circumstances, so I must take my leave.”

“No free bread this time?” I ask mildly stunned at my boldness. “I mean, surely a cheese bun is only a sampling of the baked goods you plan to bring over after the funeral?”

“Ma’am, I wouldn’t dare offend you with unwanted bread a second time. I learned my lesson already.”

I grunt at that.

This would actually be the third time he gives me bread after a funeral by my count, but he may not remember the first time. Or maybe he _does_ remember, and like me, he rather forget about it. Maybe he remembers how cold and bitter that winter was; how unrelenting it rained that day; how every person in town ignored the small, wet pile of sadness I was, slumped against the scraggly apple tree behind the bakery… I doubt it, but it is what _I_ remember about that hollow day.

Peeta may remember how I dove head first into the muddy ground, though, desperate to save the slightly burnt bread from the rain when a young Peeta tried to toss me the loaves behind his mother’s back.

Maybe he recalls how thin and starving I looked those awful days. It’s surely more likely. It must be why he made the distinction between ‘wanted’ and ‘unwanted’ bread, because a kid on the brink of starvation, rooting through trash bins, would have never turn down bread, not even with charred crust on top; not the way she grabbed at it from the ground, before it got soggy on rain water and mud, hiding it under her shirt before running away. Indubitably, any one action as such wanted any morsel she could find.

“Oh?” My brow twitches. “Shame.“ I sigh. “I was inclined to accept your offering this time, Mr. Mellark. After a full day listening to Mrs. Trinket’s instructions on proper grieving manners, I couldn’t do otherwise.”

“It would surely be a shame if Mrs. Trinket’s advice went to waste.” Says Peeta wryly.

“Now that you mention it, I think rejecting your gift might cause Mrs. Trinket great distress, which in turn would cause _me_ great amusement… you pose a moral conundrum, Mr. Mellark.” I say with my best imitation of Mrs. Trinket’s affectations.

We chuckle heartily behind our knuckles, to prevent betraying our position.

“Since you seem to be in better spirits than I anticipated, I will urge you to come out this closet, Mrs. Peace. This room is awfully musty.” He says with a smile in his voice.

I take a shuddering breath. “Very well. Thank you, Mr. Mellark. You’ve been a deeply appreciate distraction in a very dark moment. I doubt I’ll be able to repay your kindness… ever.”

Peeta stands up, his broad shoulders pushing the door wide open. He extends his hand to me pulling me to my feet when my fingers curl around his palm. I ignore the current of electricity that shocks me when our skins touch; my husband is not even in a grave yet, and this reactions to a handsome, unattached man are improper anyway. 

“Knowing that you are well, is enough payment, Mrs. Peace.” He smiles sadly at me, tips his hatless head; his wavy, ashy blond hair shines under the hall’s lighted oil lamps, “I will see you in the wake, later today.”

There's nothing I can say to that, so I nod in acknowledgement and he bows before leaving me alone in the foyer.

If I turn left, the way Peeta’s gone, I’ll be faced with the front entrance and freedom of this place.

I steel myself, purse my lips and turn right instead, towards Lavinia and Mrs. Trinket and those gaudy black dresses I’m expected to wear as a grieving widow. 

It’s time to let Darius rest, so I force myself to stand and walk with surety. 

**Author's Note:**

> This story started as a 3500 word drabble, and then I kept adding stuff to it because I thought people would get confused by my quick progressions... and then it was long enough to be a One Shot, and then I decided to chop it up into pieces and post them as chapters... because then I can add more background every so often 🙈 
> 
> Any who, I’m supposed to be working on Pixie and The Pack, but here I am. The good news is that this one is pretty much already written. 
> 
> Let me know what you think.


End file.
